Sword's Circle
by Guadian na Siochana
Summary: Rated T for language, violence, and some suggestive content.


The sun reluctantly set behind the horizon of the field, casting a final light to accentuate the glowing embers; embers having wreaked suffering and death, yet embers being the only representation of life. A slight breeze held its cue to play the bittersweet melody of twilight, winding through the barren land, weaving through the lore of history present and past; a history who's reminisce would remain forever forged in the age of man. Tones of defeat lay evident in the land – mounds of crumbled soil tainted forever with the impurity of blood, faded banners atop their proud stakes, a pride broken forever. Melancholy lay suspended in air, thick with grief and suffering, betrayal and loss.

A kneeling man quietly rose from the charred soil, bowing his head to the ground. He was young, but hooded in a silence that can only come from an obligatory maturity. A long sword hung from his side, a graceful bow on his back. A small brooch on his chest indicated him as one of the rangers – the invisible protectors of the land. The man clasped a shimmering pendant suspended on a delicate silver chain between his dirt-encrusted hands, the contrast between the two being of night and day, purity and sin, Heaven and Hell. He breathed in deeply as he brought them to his lips in prayer and contemplation, standing absolutely still. The only movement bearing witness against him was the wind that gently played with his cloak and cooled his tears.

"Curses beset me forever…I have failed again, my love," he muttered quietly. Tears of frustration and regret slipped through his now stormy eyes, set with a newfound bitterness. "I will not fail again."

Bringing his head up in determination, the man turned slowly, stopping abruptly when he saw a figure not a mere five feet away from where he had been standing. His eyes flashed dangerously as his hands released the pendant and greeted the hilt of his sword. He quickly scanned the likes of the being – about the same height as himself, cloaked in the same fashion. A long, elaborate bow graced his shoulders with a sheath of arrows, accompanied by two large, yet intricate, twin daggers at his side. He was dressed in a brown tunic and loose leggings, bearing a hooded cloak that hued his surrounding environment.

Emerald eyes sought out the man's from beneath the hued cloak and held the gaze, searching him. The man inwardly winced. He could sense something in this being's presence – something that crept into his soul, letting him know there was nothing he could hide. And the man knew it was true, for there was not – he burned on the inside with a wild fury of raging flames inside him, dancing the precarious dance of murder, of death, of grief and justice. It was taking all of the will he had in his soul to keep his face blank and his internal furor muted, so difficult to keep his composure and not lash out upon the first thing that had the misfortune of crossing the path he tread.

A long silence passed between the two, neither breaking the gaze, neither exchanging a word. The cold land lay still beneath their feet.

"I believe," came the low voice, so quiet it wove a tale of it's own into the song of the wind, "that it would be wise for you to come with me."

The man started, feeling the edge of his anger – not all, but the edge was enough, ebbing away slowly in the presence of whoever this person was. He could feel the small voice, not of the dancing flames but of his soul, returning to him, a small voice of reason.

The dark-haired man scanned the other again, looking for any kind of danger or threat. He could sense nothing…but at what point would his senses become reliable enough to trust again? What if feeling nothing did not mean that there was nothing amiss, but rather only that he could not sense it?

"_Tolo hi, mellon nin_," the other muttered, a slight strain in his voice. "We have not much time to linger."

The ranger moved his hand away from his sword-hilt, too numb with emotion to say anything. Times were changing too quickly, but he must learn to adapt to that, in the way of any ranger that dare call himself decent.

The wind slowed its melody to a whisper, and one may have thought it ended altogether, unless they possessed the delicate hearing of the elves. For the wisdom that accompanies the age of the elves must realize – sometimes, the silence is the only way the tale may begin.


End file.
